


all our tragedies

by hartxfriar



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Peterick, SO, Smut, Top!Pete, ahhhhh, bottom!patrick, my first peterick fic, sin - Freeform, so like, wait
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10099469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hartxfriar/pseuds/hartxfriar
Summary: “Fine,” Patrick sighs. “We kissed and shit, okay? It’s not––it wouldn’t have been a big deal if your drunk ass hadn’t been standing on tabletops and screaming that really, you were Pete Wentz, and some random dude actually believed you and started taking pictures and posted them on the internet, which are everywhere now, literally fucking everywhere, and now Jasmine’s mad, because we have to release a statement.”In which Patrick and Pete make a mistake and they have to pay the price. (fake dating au)





	

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first peterick fic. anyway. i've read so much that i feel kind of bad that i'm receiving and not giving, so. also i'm such a sucker for fake date au, like it's insane how much i fall for the TWO PEOPLE FAKE DATE WILL THEY FALL IN LOVE thing even if it's so obvious. like it's a formula. also check me out @hartfixer.tumblr.com. send me messages and asks and whatever i'm thinking of making a bandom/fob blog but that'd take so much work. and if you're still reading this, for some reason, you're great. i love you.

**chapter one: i dreamed in the form of your mouth across my skin.**

 

Patrick’s fingers tighten around his glass, the edges serrating into his skin as he swallows, alcohol incinerating down the slope of his throat when he exhales,  _ he needs––– _ he thinks, and his vision is blurred and there’s nausea palpitating across his skull in a bruising, bursting pulse as the thoughts form in incoherent murmurs, against the backdrop of the bright, blinding lights of the club,  _ he needs––– _

“Hey,” someone taps on your shoulder and he spins, a movement that makes his muscles ache at the abruptness. “Hey, your friend is standing on a table and refusing to get down unless he talks to a Patrick.”

_ God,  _ Patrick thinks.  _ Fucking Pete. _

“I’m guessing your the Patrick?” the boy says, teeth glinting as he grins.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, getting up. “I’m assuming I am. I’ll–––I’ll get him.”

He makes his way over to where Pete is standing on a table, heels digging into wood and laughing as it splinters and disintegrates and spills onto the floor, he’s trying to convince someone that he’s  _ Pete Wentz,  _ assuming by the hand motions and the way he tugs his t-shirt down so Patrick can see the gleam of his shoulder blades and the crown of thorns outlined across the sheerness of his shirt, skin glittering gold, and Patrick swallows, hard.

“‘m Pete Wentz, really!” he says, talking with his head tilted up at a girl in fishnets who currently has her nail file pointed towards the razor sharp tips of her fingers. “Like in the band, Fall Out Boys, like that emo group with long song titles––”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Patrick exclaims, threading his hand through Pete’s and trying to pull him to the ground, but Pete is unrelenting as steel, heels delving into the table like he’s anchored into place.

“ _ Patrick, _ ” Pete slurs. “‘Trick, my golden ticket, voice that would put angels to shame, all that’s good and right in the world, you can find in Rickster here.”

Usually, Patrick would launch a fist into his nose and watch it splinter and bleed, but Pete is obviously intoxicated, and he makes a mental note to punch him in the stomach tomorrow.

“Pete,” he says, “Get your ass down. Now.”

“So  _ concerned  _ about my virtue, ‘Trick,” Pete says, “If you wanted me, all you had to do was  _ ask. _ ”

He lands on his feet with the velocity of a car hurtling forward, and Patrick surges to catch him, there’s a moment, a millisecond, when Pete looks up, and his eyes are a ring of amber gold lined around his pupils–––when he remembers five years ago, in a friend’s basement when a party ended, the white exhale of Pete’s breath against Patrick’s mouth, and how his throat constricted at the scent of sharp, sharp alcohol and familiarity––and how time seemed to still, stutter as Pete had brushed sharpie stained fingers to Patrick’s face and leaned closer, inches closing until space didn’t exist, and an undercurrent had settled under Patrick’s veins like raw, raw electricity short circuiting, scorching a path through his arteries, and something visceral had snapped underneath his ribcage, because he  _ wanted,  _ wanted to crash his lips onto Pete’s and never have distance exist again.

But instead, he had pulled away gingerly, trying to ignore the flash of Pete’s eyes when he inclined his shoulder blades toward him and inhaled into his shirt.

“I’m so fucked up,” he had said.

“Come on,” Pete says, pulling at his wrist, and as an aftereffect, pulling him into reality. “ _ Paatrick.” _

“Pete,” Patrick says harshly, tugging on his arm to escape, but to no avail––he pulls and suddenly, Pete collides against him and the space between them vanishes, so close Patrick can see Pete’s eyes like the end of a kaleidoscope––dark and amber and glistening like prisms in the dark, he’s exhaling hard, oxygen cutting at his throat as his fingernails leave indentations in his skin from refraining the urge of wanting to thread his hands through that dark, dark hair and bite bruises into skin, dark and violet blue blooming across ink, he  _ wants, he–– _

“Hey,” Pete says, and he seems suddenly so, so somber.

He blames the alcohol in his system for what happens next.

It happens like the beginning of the disaster, the way the lunge for each other at the exact same time, as if they had planned it––how Pete was kissing him like he was going to devour Patrick whole, like he was starving. And something in Patrick stills, teeters on edge before he’s threading his hands through Pete’s hair and pulling him closer, teeth grazing across Pete’s bottom lip––salt and cinnamon and of all the things unfound––of lost, insomniac boys with bruised, battered hearts, who spent hours upon hours in a fit of infinite words and intricate paragraphs, ink embedding onto his skin as the paper tears, of the boys who sang his throat raw, trying to mean them. Pete shivers under his touch and Patrick pushes closer, closer still, until he can feel the sharp of Pete’s hipbones skating across his, all glorious, glorious friction, and he can’t help but grind into it, and he moans,  _ Pete,  _ like a prayer, like warning, like a––

Then there’s a flash of a camera, and the  _ click  _ of a shutter, and Patrick pulls away, ducks lower so his trucker hat becomes a concealer, not a trademark, and hopes to god that the camera wasn’t, wasn’t anyone who knew who they were.

“Fuck,” Pete says, spraying a palm across Patrick’s collarbone. 

.

Patrick wakes up with his pulse thrashing against his skull and a raw, dry throat that is all too familiar from endless days of tour. He feels like his veins underneath his temple have been sliced open by a the blunt tip of a butter knife, and he hisses at the onslaught of a vicious, vicious migraine that makes his teeth rattle at the fervour. 

He makes his way downstairs, kicking over a stack of organised papers in his rush for water and aspirin, and just as he pours a glass without spilling all over the kitchen counter and is about to swallow the capsules caught in his hand, his phone rings, and he runs his knuckles along the lining of marble and swears.

“Fuck, Pete,” he says, without thinking, because the first barrage of his hangover hasn’t yet faded and his rationality is shattered, disntergrating, but not his memory of the night before, apparently. 

“I did not need an elaboration of what you did last night,” a voice says and it takes a second to realise that it’s Jasmine, their publicist, and four seconds to realise that this is a catastrophe if his fucking publicist decides to call him in at eight in the morning of the day in which nothing is scheduled. 

“Wait, what?” there’s still a small flicker of hope, bursting through Patrick’s chest, incinerating across his ribcage, thinking if maybe, just maybe,  he feigned ignorance––

“What were you doing last night?” 

“I was with the guys, we had an event, we went out afterwards, that’s all,” Patrick retorts. “I don’t suppose the papparazzi has a photo of me snorting up on that cocaine, do they?”

“It’s worse than that, actually,” Jasmine says, voice dripping with faux cheeriness. “I think you forgot to mention the part where you made out with Pete––the photo evidence of which, has topped every media outlet on the internet.”

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Patrick says again. “ _ Fuck,  _ Jasmine. We were drunk. People do stupid things when they’re drunk, okay?”

“Well no one’s stupid enough to get caught!”

That’s when Patrick decides he’s going to swallow his aspirin and wait till his head clears, until the his vision is no longer blurred and nebulous at the edges, a rush of color and motion that sends his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

“Fuck,” he says again, and he let’s out a sharp, shaky exhale caught in the back of his throat that begins a chain reaction in causation––there’s suddenly last night’s events in raw, bruising clarity, of Pete gripping his waist, thumb brushing, scraping against hip bones in a tantalizing, vigorous rhythm, of Pete’s mouth––hot and scorching and colliding against his, of how Patrick’s hands had threaded through Pete’s dark hair almost as if it was instinct, wanting to draw him closer,  _ closer––– _ logic escaping his veins as Pete grazed his teeth across Patrick’s mouth, marking him, as if there wasn’t already his name etched into his skin  _ Pete Wentz  _ in dark, stark capitals since the day he had played drums in Joe’s basement in burst of energy and encased rage, sixteen years old and  _ seething,  _ when he saw Pete, all dark, dark eyeliner and gold rimmed eyes and he thought in a flurry of chord progressions and lines that vanished as soon as they emerged, of a never ending stream of broken up, shattered inflections. But he was  _ sixteen, sixteen––- _ which meant he would have a crush on anything with legs, so.

“Patrick!” Jasmine says, and Patrick blinks, groans again. “Are you even paying attention? Remember who made this mess,  okay? Also, try calling Pete, I called to break the news, and he didn’t answer. I’m guessing––too hungover? Anyway,  _ you  _ do it.”

“Do what?” a voice says from behind him, and Patrick  _ screams. _

“ _ What–––”  _ he hisses, fingers cutting into his glass of water as he spins and comes face to face with Pete––fresh faced and radiant, eyes lined black with chaos and precise, pristine disheveledness–– _ heartbreaker,  _ the facade revealed, as if Pete left a line of broken, battered hearts across pavements, concealing the restlessness hidden beneath the layer of skin, of insomnia and pill scattered sheets and black spiral notebooks left in hotel room sinks; he looked  as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t been completely  _ intoxicated  _ last night and Patrick didn’t have to carry up his stairs and hurl him onto the covers because he was  _ also  _ wasted. 

“What the  _ fuck,  _ Pete,” he says. “Why didn’t you fucking knock? That’s what normal people do!”

And to the phone he says, “It’s Pete. Gotta go, we’ll be there. Bye.”

“Because you gave me your keys,” he gives a look like a wounded puppy. “And that mean automatic access without knocking.”

“No,” Patrick says slowly. “That means you can come in my house when I’m not here or whatever. I mean, yeah, but it’s ten in the morning, and I’m still kind of hungover, so that’s not great.”

Pete yawns, shirt riding up to reveal a strip of gold, gleaming skin and Patrick fights the urge not to not brush away the stray strand of hair that brushes his eyelashes, to not do anything irrational, to not run his hands all along the glorious planes of his stomach and push him down into his bed and not let go.

He swallows. He's  _ not,  _ he’s  _ not  _ attracted to Pete, that was a one time fluke that reconned his sixteen year old crush on older boys who were in bands and wrote lines and lines of ruined bedsheets and red stained mouths and catastrophes, he was  _ not  _ attracted to Pete, his best friend.

“I just got up,” Pete says, drowning down his water before Patrick has anytime to react. “Thought we could maybe hang out a bit today? Sorry for yesterday, though, I was so fucking wasted, god, I haven’t been that drunk since I was a teenager, it was  _ terrible.  _ I mean technically, I don’t really remember anything, so, that’s good? Or bad? I hope I haven’t married some tattooed bartender on accident or something.”

“Um,” is all Patrick says.

“ _ ‘Triiiick,” _ Pete says, looking slighty frantic. “I didn’t do anything, did I? I’m sorry! I did, didn’t I? That’s why you have that ‘fuck, I have to deal with shit’ face that’s reserved for me, right? Do you still love me?”

“First of all,” Patrick says. “Shut the fuck up. I still––I still love you, okay? I mean, we’re still friends, just, I was on the phone with Jasmine–––”

There’s a flash of something in Pete’s eyes, but it blurs and softens into amber when he blinks, and Patrick’s not sure if he imagined it.

“You and her,” he says. “You’re––do you have something to tell me, Patrick? We don’t have anything scheduled until  _ Infinity  _ drops, so, either you two are fucking or  _ I  _ did something.”

“Fuck, Pete,” Patrick buries his head in his hands. “Have you seen the internet? Or the news, or have any recollection of last night?”

“If I boned some girl, whatever,” Pete pours himself another glass of water. “I’m sure damage control will be fine. I’m Pete Wentz, remember? Short guy who likes hookups and eyeliner?”

“No, it’s not that,” Patrick pulls out a chair and motions for Pete to sit, which he does, albeit hesitantly. “Look, just search TMZ or any other fucking gossip trash website and you’ll see it.”

“Why can’t you just  _ tell me  _ then,” Pete says, with a slightly edge to his words, canines grinding into the bottom row of his teeth. 

 “ _ Fine, _ ” Patrick sighs. “We kissed and shit, okay? It’s not––it wouldn’t have been a big deal if your drunk ass hadn’t been standing on tabletops and screaming that  _ really, you were Pete Wentz,  _ and some random dude actually believed you and started taking pictures and posted them on the internet, which are  _ everywhere  _ now, literally fucking everywhere, and now Jasmine’s mad, because we have to release a statement.”

“Patrick,” Pete begins, and it’s the voice that’s familiar, that reminds him of drowsy hours in the studio with his fingers scraping the soundboard with Pete’s collarbones slicing into his stomach, and there’s the faint, faint recollection of Patrick with his eyelids snapping shut as if anchored down with steel, so nebulous Patrick’s not sure if it’s not a vision or from his dreams, a discarded shard of desperate, frantic disillusion from his subconcious,  when Pete had whispered  _ Patrick,  _ just like that, like it  _ hurt,  _ and brushed back a strand of hair behind his ear. It must be his imagination though, Patrick thinks.  _ Pete’s not––– _

“We were both drunk,” Patrick swallows, despises himself for being so fucking dramatic. “It’s fine. It’s just, what are we going to do? The album is going to release in less than two months, and they’re going to ask questions, and what do we say? That we were  _ drunk, _ and we just decided to make out for whatever reason? It’s a disaster.”

“So it’s going to be awkward,” Pete says, exhaling through his teeth. “I don’t give a fuck. It’s not like we can do anything but wait. I mean, it’s not like they’re going to make us fake date until the tour is over, right? Just,  _ relax,  _ ‘Trick, let’s play Halo or something or take Hemmy out for a walk–––or maybe not do that because paparazzi, but, it’s  _ fine. _ ”

“If they actually do make us fake date or something,” Patrick says. “I will punch you in the fucking throat. And  _ some  _ of us haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“ _ Great, _ ” Pete flashes a smile that obliterated Patrick’s retinas. “I like my eggs sunny side up, toast with some strawberry jam, please? None of that marmalade shit.”

“Fuck you, you asshole,” Patrick said, but he was already popping open the jar of jam. “And we only have grape jelly and whole wheat toast.”

“Why do you have to be so  _ healthy _ ?” Pete says. “Doesn’t it feel great to clog your arteries?”

**.**

“It’s just until the tour is done,” Jasmine says, piling a document onto the smooth surface of fogged, stained glass beneath his fingertips, which he is pressing against, until there’s a line of fingerprints along the edge. Patrick runs his nails against the slope of the tale until it cuts and serrated at his skin, splinters against his nerve endings and tries not to wince.

“ _ No, _ ” Patrick says. “Absolutely not.”

Pete actually winces.

“ _ Listen, _ ” Jasmine says, in the voice you use when talking to a small, stubborn child. “I know it’s difficult. But this could be  blessing in disguise, Patrick. Scandals sell,  _ especially  _ with one like this. The press is already going batshit crazy, the album is getting more publicity than it ever would have generated on it’s own, even after  _ Cork Tree,  _ you don’t want to be the band that dropped off the face of the earth because they didn’t seize their chances, do you?”

“But–––” his mind if frantic, racing and accelerating against the backdrop of the clock in the background an infinite  _ tick tick  _ of seconds trickling out of his grasp,  _ I can’t,  _ he wants to say. Because he’s selfish, the majority of the time, but he can’t, he can’t do this to Pete, can’t anchor him to the ground by binding him to Patrick,  _ can’t  _ stain his wings in mercury and watch him sink. “Please. Pete, tell her. It’ll––we don’t have to.  _ Cork Tree  _ was successful and  _ Infinity  _ will be, too? With or without  _ this.  _ Just. Please.”

Pete’s eyes seems to be fixated towards the ground, knuckles colliding into the table with vicious, vicious intensity––Patrick can see the underside of Pete’s wrist, veins blue and violet and straining underneath dark skin, gleaming underneath florescent lights, and for a second Pete lifts his head and meets Patrick’s gaze for a brief, fleeting second––-eyes gold and dark and unrelenting, before his eyes snap shut and he says, “I don’t––I don’t  _ know. _ I mean, it’d only have to be for like less than a year, right? And we’re basically in each other’s company most of the time, and it’s not like we have to be exhibtionists, we could just hold hands and, just, it’s not  _ that  _ terrible, okay?”

Patrick had not expected those to be the syllables that escaped Pete’s mouth, he had expected rejection, because Pete Wentz––-bright, beautiful, brilliant Pete Wentz with a coronet of glory and sultry magnetism that set him in gold, Pete Wentz, the poster child of broken hearts and teenage angst–––of unpunctuated livejournal posts and a stream of paragraphs that bled ink and gore and the illusion of grandeur.

“But we can’t have sex with anyone,” Patrick blurts, and Pete’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Well,” the corners of Pete’s mouth turn up. “It’s a good thing I have my right hand.”

And the thing is, he can’t think about why this is a catastrophic idea, if it would boost the band––excluding the way his heart plunges, pounds against his ribcage, splinters against his lungs when he lets himself think of Pete, when it’s dark and insomnia splits through his bloodstream, for more than ten seconds a time, of dark ink and miles and miles of gold skin, mouth pressed––

But why, why does it feel like it’s the beginning of a car crash, of the blinding rush of headlights gleaming through your irises just before it all falls and shatters, the span of point six seconds when you’re just standing still.

“Okay,” he finds the pen and signs his name on the contract in a sudden burst of spontaneity. “There.”

“You convinced him in less than two minutes,” Jasmine says to Pete. “Why didn’t you say anything in the past three fucking hours?”

“Well,” Pete licks his lips. “I  _ am  _ irresistible.”

  
  


  
  


 


End file.
